Escape
by KuroNekoShoujo
Summary: Iwai has a secret he's kept from everyone, including the person who means the most to him, Shinomiya Koji. But when BL Acedemy recieves an unexpected visitor, that secret will come out in the worst possible way.
1. Memories

**Hi peoples!! And welcome to my first Gakuen Heaven fic! Well, ok, I do have a cross over out, but this is my first Gakuen Heaven only fic!! I'm really excited about the one, because it features my absolute favorite couple!! Shinomiya and Iwai!! KYAH!!! *passes out***

**Umm...Yeah, please forgive my fangirl spaz moment there. I tend to get a tiny bit carried away when it comes to bishies in love with one another...**

**Anyway, on with the fic!! Enjoy! XD**

**Warning: This first chapter contains strong language and child abuse, and the fic on the whole will include much bishie x bishie romance. No like, no read.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Gakuen Heaven or any of the characters within. If I did, Shinomiya and Iwai would have gotten a LOT more screen time.**

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_The small boy screamed as the extension cord was brought down hard across his back, easily slicing through the pale white flesh. Down it came again and again, each time carving a new, bloody path into his skin. Really, you think he would have learned by now not to scream. Screaming only means more beatings, more whippings. After all, __he__ likes the screams._

_Only after the ninth or tenth lash did the boy finally manage to suppress his shriek of pain, and he almost sobbed in relief at the sound of the chord being dropped to the floor. Now all that was left was the beating, and he could handle that. He could..._

_All his thoughts, as well as his breath, left him immediately as a booted foot delivered a sharp kick to his ribs, knocking him on to his back and forcing him to bite his lip hard in order to keep from crying out as pain seared through the newly formed gashes._

_The boy had no time to regain his breath as the first kick was quickly followed by another, this time to his head. His head spun as he saw stars dance before his eyes. He only barely registered that his tormentor had begun to speak, but the words he did hear hurt almost as bad as the sharp kicks that accompanied them._

_"You stupid brat!! Can't you do anything right?! I told you to do one simple thing: go to the corner store and get me a pack of cigs, and you can't even do that right! What the hell are you even good for, anyway? Worthless little shit..."_

_The boy silently took the brutal beating without a word. Words only made it worse. So what if it wasn't his fault? So what if the reason he hadn't been able to buy his father's cigarettes was because the cashier knew he was too young to buy them? He was only nine, after all._

_But his father wouldn't see any of that. To him, it would always be the boy's fault, no matter what. So why even bother?_

_When the vicious kicks and blows stopped raining down on him, the boy slowly lifted his head. Instead of feeling relief, however, all the boy felt was dread. The beating had stopped much earlier than usual, and his father never stopped short when it came to "disciplining" his son. Never._

_The dread quickly morphed into terror as the boy realized what had drawn his father's attention away. A spiral bound sketchbook, which the boy had so carefully hidden away in his desk, had apparently been dislodged when his father had yanked the lamp cord from the wall in order to beat him. _

_"What the hell is this?!" His father demanded, turning back to the boy. The child felt his body begin to tremble, but he remained silent. "I thought I told you I didn't want you doodling this crap anymore! I told you art isn't going to get you anywhere in the real world!"_

_In reality, however, that was far from the truth. The boy was so brilliant when it came to art, one might even say he was a child prodigy. He had already mastered several mediums, including pencil, charcoal, and water color paints by the age of eight, and now, at the nine, he was working on mastering even more._

_But in all honesty, none of that mattered to the boy. He didn't care how talented he was, or how much money he could make of his art. No, loved art for a much more basic, fundamental reason._

_It was his escape._

_Through his art, the boy was able to truly escape from his life, his circumstances, himself. While he created some beautiful masterpiece on canvas or paper, he could forget about himself, his father, and the world around him. It was just his art and his vision. Should he lose that...well, the boy could not even think about it. It was too painful _

_"B-But father," the boy whispered, speaking for the first time, "My teacher said I have enough to talent to—,"_

_"I don't give a shit what your teacher said! And neither should you! You listen to what I say above all else! You do not disobey me!" _

_The man stopped yelling for a moment and looked at the sketchbook in his hands, almost as if he were examining it. Then he smiled, and the boy had never felt more terrified._

_"Maybe this is why you can't seem to do anything right lately. You're too distracted by all this art shit," His smile widened as he slowly walked to the back of the room, where the fire place was located. "Well, I think I have a way to remedy that."_

_And before the boy could do anything to stop him, his father threw the sketchbook._

_Into._

_The._

_Fire._

_The boy screamed and, ignoring the pain that every movement caused him, ran over to the fire place to try and salvage his sketchbook. His efforts were immediately put to an end, however, when a hard punch was delivered right to his bruised and broken ribs, causing him to fall to the floor in breathless agony. _

_The tall man knelt down and roughly grasped the boy's bruised face in his hands. Smiling, he whispered in the boy's ear, "Maybe this will teach never to disobey me again, you little bitch."_

_The boy was only dimly aware of what his father said, just as he was only dimly aware of when he left the room. None of that mattered anymore. None of it. Not the pain in his body, not the blood matted in his silver-blonde hair, not even the ragged, still-bleeding wounds on his back. Nothing mattered ._

_Tears filled the boy's large, amber colored eyes as he watched his only escape slowly be burned to ash in the fire._

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**Well, there you have it! Chapter 1!! I really hope you liked it, and if you did (or even if you didn't) please please please please please PLEASE review!! Those of you who have read any of my other stories know what a major review junkie I am, so if you wish to avoid severe mental (as well as physical) trauma, I suggest you give me my fix!!!**

**Ta ta for now!**

**~Neko-chan~**


	2. Concern

**Hi y'all! Sorry it took me so long to update this fic. I have two other ongoing fics besides this one that I have also been working on, and, in addition to that, I'm having some health issues, so it's been hard for me to update anything! **

**But the other day, I started listening to this song "Concrete Angel" by Martina McBride (for those of you who have not heard this song, you absolutely MUST look up the music video on Youtube. It will make you cry) and it reminded me of this fic and why I wanted to write it in the first place. So here it is, the next chapter! You have Martina McBride and a hell of a lot of pain medication to thank for it! XD**

**Enjoy!**

**Warning: Well, not a whole lot to warn about in this chapter. Some bishie x bishie romance if you squint, but other than that, nothing. So if you don't like...then what the hell are you doing in a Gakuen Heaven fanfic in the first place?**

**Disclaimer: Yes, yes, we all know by now that I don't own the bishies. Must we continue to rub my nose in it? TT_TT**

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Takuto's eyes shot open and he sat up straight in his chair. His breath came in short, harsh pants, and a feeling of moisture on his face let him know he had been crying.

_Not again_, he thought, resting his face in his hands. _Not that dream again. Will I never be free of those Goddamn memories? _

Takuto had thought when he got his platinum paper in the mail that Bell Liberty School would be his escape, where he could forget everything about his life before, including his father.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

The nightmares had started his first night at BL Academy. They had been the worst all throughout his first year, but they had slowly gotten better as he got further into his second year. By his third year, he hadn't had one in six months.

At least, not until two weeks ago.

Takuto didn't know what triggered it, but since then, he'd started having them every night again. Only worse. Before he only dreamed about the beatings. Those he could handle. But lately, his dreams had been drifting towards his darker memories. The ones he desperately tried to keep buried. Those awful nights...

_No!_ He shouted in his mind, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He could not think about that. If he did, he would surely break.

Though really, at this point, Takuto was likely to break anyway, from lack of sleep alone. Ever since the nightmares had started up again, he had been doing everything he could not to sleep. So far, he had lasted three days and nights.

Well, until he had fallen asleep at his desk while working on a rough sketch for a new painting, that is.

Still, the fact of the matter was, if he didn't get a decent night sleep soon, he was going to lose what little functioning ability he had left. And the fair-haired artist couldn't afford to let that happen. After all, Koji was already getting suspicious.

Anyone with eyes could see the dark, bruise-like circles under Takuto's eyes, and the archer's eyes were sharper than most. He had also noticed the unhealthy pallor of Takuto's skin; the natural slenderness of his body become even more pronounced as the artist lost weight. Much as Takuto tried to hide it from Koji, he knew he was not fooling his dark-haired friend.

Takuto shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He couldn't focus on things like that right now. He had to get this sketch done for the Department Showcase next week.

This exhibition of the progress of all the different clubs and activities would play a big part in deciding what departments received funding increases or decreases in the semester to come, and Lord knows the art department couldn't take another budget cut.

Takuto had only become president of the art club two years ago, when he was a first year at BL Academy. In most cases, this would have been a great honor, for someone as young as he had been to be chosen as the president of a club, but really, at that time, the so called "art department" had been little more than a couple canvases and a few tubes of paint thrown into a storage closet. In fact, Takuto was the first student to ever be admitted to Bell Liberty on artistic talent alone.

Slowly though, the art department was built up. More artists were accepted into the academy, and more artists meant more talent, which in turn meant more funding. And, eventually, the art club became one of the most successful clubs at Bell Liberty.

However, while the art department was a far cry from what it used to be, that did not mean that Takuto and the other artists could afford to get over confident. They had taken some budget hits in recent semesters, so they had to work twice as hard this time around in order to ensure that that didn't happen again.

Which was precisely why Takuto could not afford to waste time wallowing in self-pity over his dark nightmares or indulging in day dreams about a certain dark-haired archer. As club president, he had to ensure the success of his department and all its members, which meant finishing this sketch on time.

Yet, as Takuto picked up his pencil and held it against the paper, he found that his hand could not stop shaking. The shakes were so bad that he was not only unable to sketch a straight line, but he repeatedly kept losing his grip on the pencil itself. Finally, after retrieving the wooden implement from the floor for the sixth time, he decided to call it a night.

_Lack of food and sleep must be getting to me_, Takuto thought to himself as he began packing up his supplies. _That must be why I can't stop shaking._

Yes, and maybe if he thought that to himself enough, he would begin to believe it too.

He was just putting the last of his loose practice sketches back into his sketch book when a warm, heavy hand clasped his shoulder.

Takuto let out a muffled shriek of surprise and jumped away from the hand, scattering the pencil and charcoal marred paper all across the room. He would have fallen backwards over his easel had it not been for that same hand he had been so desperately trying to escape grabbing hold of his thin wrist and jerking him forward so he fell against a broad, hard-muscled chest.

"Easy, Takuto! It's only me. Calm down."

The fair-haired artist let out a shaky sigh of relief at the sound of the familiar, deep voice, before turning crimson with embarrassment at the situation. Jumping back from where he had still been leaning against the archer's chest, he stuttered nervously, "I-I'm sorry, Koji. I d-didn't mean t-to react so..."

Koji couldn't help but smile at his nervous friend. Really, they had known each other for almost three years now, and the artist felt the need to apologize for every little incident. Slowly approaching the still stuttering man, the archer gently put his hands on his friend's thin shoulders.

"Takuto, calm down, it's alright. You've done nothing wrong. It's late at night, you were working alone, and I came up behind you without announcing my presence. Your reaction was a natural one."

"Y-Yes, but..." Takuto began, looking down at the floor to hide his flushed face. He couldn't let Koji know how much the archer's presence effected him.

Koji frowned, but not because of the artist's response. No, he frowned because he realized just how thin his friend's shoulders felt. Looking the other up and down, it became clear that the fair-haired man had been skipping meals again. "Takuto, look at me."

Hesitantly, and only after he was sure the blush had completely left his face, did Takuto slowly lift his amber eyes to meet Koji's deep purple ones.

The archer's frown deepened at the dark purple rings under the artist's eyes. Clearly, his friend had not been sleeping as well as not eating. Koji felt an involuntary pang of guilt stab at his heart. Had he not been so absorbed in training the new archery recruits for the upcoming exhibition these past couple weeks, he might have noticed Takuto's neglect of his health and, as he had taken it upon himself to do since he had met the fair-haired artist, put a stop to it.

Sighing, Koji released his hold on the artist's shoulders and bent down to begin picking up the scattered sheaves of paper.

Takuto looked at his friend in alarm, and then embarrassment. "K-Koji, you don't have to—,"

"Takuto, I am going to help you pick up these sketches, then we are going to find you a decent meal, something I'm sure you haven't had in days," he said, casting a glare over his shoulder at the artist, who flushed and looked at the floor in shame. "And then, you are going to go to bed, where you will stay for at least the next nine hours, and so help me if I hear of you leaving your bed before then, I will drag you back and tie you to it, am I clear?"

Takuto blushed an even deeper shade of crimson at the thought of Koji tying him to a bed, and nodded sheepishly, bending over to help retrieve the loose papers, all the while casting furtive glances at his dark-haired friend, unaware that a certain archer was doing the same thing to him.

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**Well, there it is! Chapter 2 of "Escape"! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, and haven't completely given up on me for my lack of updating punctuality, then please...REVIEW! I know you're all probably tired of my review freak outs, but I seriously NEED my reviews! They are my motivation (well, them and Martina McBride...) so please, if you want more updates quickly, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!**

**Until next time, my darlings!**

**~Neko-chan~**


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